Welcome to Gaia! ::

[size=10][align=center][i]"Stories are creatures of great beauty, or terrible wretchedness. Music tells stories in a way that words cannot; a Capriccio journey, the dissonance of love's miscommunications, an elegy for a lost dream... and finally, a Nocturne for another day. Although our music must acknowledge the night, the end of our previous lives, within that descent there is hope. In good music, I feel that there must always be hope."[/i][/align]


A colour which was almost grapefruit pink crept into the blue sky over Sirocco. He made his way down the gravel path, his feet aching and his bag bouncing against his hip. He pressed one hand against it, to stay its bouncing. Down the path, a Constellation with pink hair sat on a barrier made of stones, though they had eroded over time. Seeing him sitting there, Sirocco hurried his step, and felt a little of the exhaustion give way to joy. The Constellation waved prematurely; how could Sirocco possibly say hello from that distance? Sirocco knew, even this far away, that the constellation was already grinning from ear to ear.

Sirocco opened a bottle of powdered lavender flowers and raised it above him, tapping a little out. Before it could fall, he tugged a breeze along with his other hand and carried the scent to the pink-haired Constellation. Sirocco laughed, a gentle, warm sound which carried along that same breeze. The Constellation that waited for him had stretched, inevitably yawned, and was curled up on the stones. The daylight was fading too fast. He had been on the road for days, traveling through the Emerald Forest to the Port city of Priyal, collecting stories and playing his instruments for those he encountered. At Priyal, he had even played the stationary wind charms for them; they were a series of wooden tubes which his brother had made and installed, once upon a time. They used Sirocco's gift to play beautiful music for the neighbourhood, notes which drifted far off into the city. Whenever Sirocco visited, there was a small celebration. He was always treated well, there, and he would return with a blueprint or two for his brother, and many more stories and songs for himself. Sirocco had an incredible memory for detail and seldom wrote anything down. Writing was his brother's forte.

His brother was also a little better at expressing himself verbally. Sirocco was not very good at understanding someone's emotions unless they put it to him musically. If asked what his favourite day was, Sirocco would have to say, "A Legato day, with a pleasant walk crescendo and a obbligato, accompanied by a loved one." His brother would then smack him, probably, and try to translate. It was his brother waiting for him now, much closer than he had been a few minutes ago.

Sirocco was finally close enough to his brother. He reached into his bag and passed the rows of vials, choosing instead a little clay instrument which looked like the belly of a pregnant woman, holes lined up on one side and a fine mouthpiece on the top. He blew a little trill, and repeated it. It was his way of calling his brother's name. His brother stirred, rose, and leaped off the stones, almost tripping in the gravel. Sirocco quickly put his instrument back in his bag, before his brother could trap it against him with his warm embrace. "Well met, brother," Sirocco said, his voice like cinnamon in a cup of cocoa, or a tropical breeze drifting through organza curtains. He clasped his brother on the back and drew away, standing with one hand balanced on his satchel, the other flat at his side.


"Hey! You took too long, I thought you were eaten by a Susikoira, or something," his brother grinned, winking. "Good thing you weren't; would have given the poor thing indigestion."

"Lemon, you are a queer thing for a brother of mine." Sirocco shook his head, a little smile forming. His yellow scarf twirled lazily in a breeze that belonged to Sirocco, and Sirocco alone. It was almost his aura, the way Sirocco seemed to keep it circling around him. He seemed to breathe easier, and to look more lively than anyone around him, with his eternal current constantly churning. It even made his hair flutter gently against his face.

"Half-brother. Clearly, that explains why I'm so much fun to be around and you just make me want to nap all the time." Lemon flipped a lock of his pink hair up, blowing on it to get it out of his eye. He grinned in his wolfish way and hopped back up on the stones. The day was more grapefruit than blue, and less grapefruit than ink; descending into night. "Sometimes, though, I'm afraid you won't come back. I mean, you have to realize how much quieter it is without me!" Lemon laughed. Sirocco shook his head, and stood on the stones beside his brother. He patted him on the head. Were they really brothers? Sometimes, neither of them were sure that was true, but they felt the bond nevertheless. It took less thinking and more feeling.

Sirocco traveled around the land, looking for stories of an item which might lead him to the thing itself. When they were little, Lemon and Sirocco, he had heard a story of an instrument that spoke with the voices of the spirits who had yet to find their form in their lifetime, or ones who had already passed on. Sirocco wanted so much to find that magical instrument that he had begun his travels, but he always returned home. He was sometimes away for vast periods of time, but when he returned, things were almost always as he had left them. Lately, things had been more chaotic, and he could see it on his brother's face. There was even a bandage wrapped up around one of his wrists. "Do you have any stories to tell me, brother mine?" Sirocco looked down at his brother, one brow quirked. Lemon looked up at him.

Sirocco embodied many of the things Lemon was not, but also embraced some similarities. Sirocco was a bard, a nomad, a poet, and most of all, he was skilled with wind manipulation. Like his brother, he loved to journey; however, Sirocco was softer and more considerate than his brother. Lemon tended to frustrate others, whereas Sirocco lived and breathed harmony. His most popular talent, and the one which brought him the most joy to use, was a technique for playing instrumental constructions with his wind gift. "I'll tell you my story if you play for me," Lemon said, laying back on the stones, using Sirocco's feet as a pillow. "It's a pretty good story, too. Worth a really good song."

"Oh?" Sirocco said, simply, an amused smile slipping across his face. Sirocco's desire to find that legendary instrument often parted him from his brother, whom he cared for, despite himself. Sirocco was constantly torn between his home and that which he desired; without one, he yearned for the other. He tugged breezes towards him, stirred up idle air and put it to work, channeling the wind into the wooden and metal constructions his brother had set up on the edge of the Lost Village, close to their childhood home. He played a song which encompassed that yearning, the division between joy and sadness. Finally, it joined the two, and settled into silence, the echo of his music drifting away. Lemon stood up on the stones next to his brother and clasped one arm around his shoulders, tugging Sirocco into his side and letting go. "'Good music always ends with hope', huh? Even after all these years?"

Sirocco just smiled, evening breezes settling in around him and his brother like a soft blanket. [/size]